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to carry her own handbag, but she preferred it that way.
    “Do you want to see my jewelry?” she asked with the solemn air of a kindergartner holding a pet frog for inspection. She didn’t wait for an answer but opened her large tapestry bag and pulled out a smaller one.
    “Here,” she said, unzipping what looked like a cosmetic bag and fishing out a ring. “It’s a cabochon ruby. Thirty-five carats.” She dropped it into my hand. It felt heavy and inappropriately large for her small hand. The ruby was set in gold and ringed with diamonds.
    “Look at this,” she commanded, pulling the next item from her bag. “It’s my diamond.” It sure was—it was actually half a dozen large diamonds of different cuts and sizes that looked as though they had haphazardly fallen into a delicate setting of gold. “Each stone has a story,” she said. “This one is from my mother’s wedding ring, and this one was given to me by Omar. It was from her engagement ring.” Phyllis continued pointing out each stone and its significance, then dropped it into my lap beside the ruby. (Both rings were stolen a year later when Phyllis left them in the restroom of an airplane.)
    On she went pulling rings, brooches, and bracelets from her bag and holding them up for me to see, then dropping them in my hands. I’d spread a napkin across my lap and placed each one in it as Phyllis delved back into her bag for more. I was getting nervous. I didn’t think we were going to be robbed at gunpoint in an airplane, but what happened if we hit an air pocket and all those magnificent baubles went flying? When she reached the end, she scooped them all up and stuffed them back in her bag. At least I knew why she insisted on carrying her own purse. And why it was so heavy.
     

7
     
    W e arrived in Pittsburgh midafternoon. Rehearsal was at 6:00 P.M., the first of two shows at 8:00 P.M. Rather than a limo, a Chrysler Town Car was waiting at the airport. Because all of our luggage wouldn’t fit in the trunk, Karen and I sat in the front seat, each holding a wig box. Phyllis was in the back with three large suitcases. I sighed with relief when the driver dropped me at the Hilton. Karen and Phyllis went on to the nearby apartment where Warde was waiting.
    “We’ll be back for you in a few minutes,” Phyllis called as the car pulled away. I dashed inside to check in.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am, but your rooms aren’t quite ready,” the desk clerk said. He didn’t sound sorry in the slightest.
    “I’m in a hurry. I have to leave again in a few minutes.”
    “Hmm.” He flipped through some pages. “Did you specifically want the tower?”
    “No. It doesn’t matter. Anything.”
    “Two rooms, right?
    “Yes. Two.”
    “You want them close?”
    “I don’t care. Just two rooms!” I felt sweat running down my back.
    After flipping through a few more pages and placing a call, he handed me a couple of keys.
    “They’re not together,” he said.
     “Fine.” The porter had returned to the bell desk and was summoned. He took our bags up and I directed the disposition of each—my white suitcase and the office bag in one room, Karen’s big plaid suitcase in the room down the hall. I barely had time to use the bathroom and run a comb through my hair. I rushed downstairs.
    The doorman greeted me with a big smile.
    “Are you Miss Diller’s secretary?” he asked.
    I nodded.
    “They just left,” he said.
    “They what?”
    “They were here and said they couldn’t wait. They went on to the club but said you didn’t have to bother to come out.”
    “They left me here?”
    “Guess you have the night off.”
    “Really? You’re not joking?” I had a horrible sinking feeling. What had she meant by “don’t bother to come out”? Was I fired? Was that the equivalent of “take the next plane home”? Besides the anxiety, I was terribly disappointed. I’d been looking forward to the excitement of the theater and seeing Phyllis onstage.
    I had